


My Little Love

by ladymelodrama



Series: My Little Love [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ;), Because that's what we want, Cleganebowl, F/M, Maege bakes cookies, Mormont Girls, i worked it in, no seriously, or something, school au, the entire GoT cast as elementary school kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: #GradeSchoolJorleesi
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth (background), Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: My Little Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042809
Comments: 120
Kudos: 96





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, you're getting a new fic today too. It's been a week. And I need some extra fluff in my life. Plus I owe salzrand about 1000 fics at this point (like literally, a thousand - and that was before the #BearIslandJorleesi pic hit my inbox <3) so might as well get started ;) Blame her for this random idea.
> 
> I'm gonna mark this as a one-shot for now. But ohhhhh, you guys know me. #MiddleSchoolDance anyone?

By the start of second grade, Daenerys starts to dread the last break of the day. 

When the kids file out to the playground, all four grades mix together in a rush, off running and hollering as soon as they pass the school door. She’s jostled as some of the others push by her, always small for her age, and in no particular hurry to join them. She almost wishes she could stay inside and continue her history lessons. Even if she doesn’t much care to learn more about Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, even if he does share her last name.

_How many Aegon Targaryens does the world need anyway?_

“Old woman! Old woman! You look like an old woman with silver hair!” the familiar chants start soon enough. They aren’t very clever and she knows they’re just stupid words, but they still make Daenerys cry. Stubbornly, she holds the stinging tears back, unwilling to let the willowy Stark girl or her smirking best friend, Margaery, know how much their words hurt her.

Or how it hurts when they tell her she can’t sit with them in class. Or when they exclude her from playing fortune-teller on the playground. 

When it comes to her turn, Sansa snatches the paper fortune-teller from Daenerys’s hands before she can read the words scrawled under the fold. She reminds the silver-haired Targaryen girl, “We already know your fortune, Daenerys. You’re the ‘princess who is promised’,” and then she rolls her eyes on the old, worn-out joke, “More like Daddy’s little princess.”

That comment is Viserys’s doing. Daenerys and her brother have been shuffled through half a dozen different foster homes since Daenerys was a baby and their home life is anything but glamorous, but he still pretends that Aerys Targaryen, the former, disgraced mayor of Westeros and their wayward, deadbeat father—is coming back for them.

_And when he does, little sister, they’ll all eat their words. We’ll be out of this dump and back to the fanciest private schools Targaryen money can buy…_

She’s only seven, but she’s starting to think her brother doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Her father’s crimes were many—embezzlement, corruption, greed—and he nearly burned the entire town to the ground before he left, leaving a hole in the municipal checkbook that has yet to be refilled. His name is spoken around the village with only anger and bitterness.

The eldest Stark sister, Sansa, seems to think Aerys’s crimes are a valid excuse to torment the children he left behind.

Or the youngest anyway. With her strange silver hair and eager manner, too often wearing her feelings on her sleeve. 

Daenerys balls up her tiny fists at her sides, until her fingernails leave marks in her palms. But she holds her tongue in front of the other girls, hoping they’ll lose interest soon and go back to the swings or skipping rope on familiar rhymes: “Jenny-girl, Jenny-girl, count your ghosts: 1, 2, 3…”

As Margaery jumps in time to the verses, with Sansa and Myrcella swinging the doubled ropes, Daenerys makes her escape, running to the opposite side of the playground. She climbs up a tall ladder into the winding corridors and bridgework of the wooden play castle, until she finds her favorite spot, a secluded and hidden room near the top of one of its four, spiraled towers. 

For the kids, the castle might as well be life-sized. It’s enormous, even for a grown adult. You could nearly get lost in its many corners and chambers, complete with a couple secret passageways. There’s a park bench at the center of the castle’s atrium, made of cherry wood and wrought iron. It serves as a centerpiece for many of the children’s schoolyard games. 

Tywin Lannister spared no expense, donating the play structure to the school as soon as his children enrolled, on the express condition that the teachers turn a blind eye to some of his daughter’s less-than-charitable antics and pad her less-than-stellar grade point average. Cersei Lannister has a reputation, even for a ten-year-old. Many of the teachers are breathing a long sigh of relief, as this is her last year in primary school.

Daenerys doesn’t care who put the castle here but she’s glad to have it as a place of escape. The cedar and cherry boards are all sanded down smoothly, stained elegantly and etched with scrolling designs—lions, wolves, bears and dragons. Roses and suns. Fish and stars. Daenerys’s little tower room is filled with carved dragons, painted in yellow, green and black, her favorite of all. 

But she’s not looking at the dragons now. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her arms are clasped tightly around them. Her lungs burn, from the run across the loose gravel and from the sobs she’s been keeping inside. Alone and safe from the others, she finally lets herself cry, allowing her tears to fall freely, with quiet sniffles.

She doesn’t want anyone to see her cry. She’s worried they might tell Viserys. And to her brother, who wears his silver hair and their family name like a blazing badge of honor, despite their father’s disgrace, there’s no greater betrayal to their family than to let others make them feel shame. He raises his chin at the very idea that these _peasants_ have anything worthy to say. 

And rages whenever he finds out Daenerys has _dared_ allow them to say anything against their family name.

Viserys doesn’t handle betrayal well. Or their reduced circumstances. He remembers living in the mayor’s mansion across town too vividly. He tells Daenerys he’ll get back there some day. She never disagrees with him, as she knows what happens when she disagrees or questions him. 

_See what you made me do, sweet sister?_

But as long as Viserys doesn’t find out, there’s no danger. It’s not that she doesn’t like her hair, or being a Targaryen. But sometimes she just wishes she had red hair like Sansa’s or nut-brown like Margaery’s. Or even plain, corn-silk blonde like Brienne. 

But while she’s wishing for things, she’d also like a mom and dad who were around to talk to when she got home after lessons. And maybe a brother who would be her friend at school, instead of ignoring her completely. She could use a friend.

 _You follow me around like a lost puppy, Daenerys! Get away!_

Daenerys’s cries are soft and muffled against her knees, echoing no further than her little hideaway. No one’s playing in the castle during this break anyway, as there’s a multi-grade game of dodgeball happening near the basketball court. Sandor and Gregor are picking teams, with the smaller kids watching from the sidelines. Daenerys is too little to play but she wouldn’t have anyone to sit with either. Miserable, she lays her forehead on her knees, where her little tears drop like rain on her sunflower-splashed jumper. 

She doesn’t notice anyone approach until she hears a gentle knock on the wood crossbeam marking the entrance to her secret spot, a short corridor leading to a long bridge between the towers, which some of the kids use to cut across the castle to the woods behind the playground, instead of walking all the way around.

Daenerys lifts her head from her knees but her eyesight is blurred, so she wipes away the lingering tears with the backs of both hands. She turns towards the direction of the knock, recognizing the older boy who is kneeling near the entrance to her quiet place, with a concerned look gracing his features. He’s wearing a dark green sweater with a brown bear’s face embroidered on the front of it and he’s holding a book in his hands that has a centaur on the cover, _A Wrinkle in Time_. 

Jorah Mormont. 

He’s nine and a half, practically grown up to Daenerys’s wide, violet-colored eyes. Tall and quiet, with locks of red-blond hair curling just over the tops of his ears. He doesn’t jump around all the time like some of the other boys. But he’s athletic and sturdy. He’s always one of the first to get picked in dodgeball. Or any of the games.

But he doesn’t always play, sometimes preferring to just read a book by himself. His mom died two years ago, very unexpectedly. It was a terribly sad thing, everyone says so. Daenerys remembers going to the funeral with her brother and seeing Jorah with his stern father, both in black suits, standing beside a casket covered in white roses and purple gillyflowers. Jorah’s eyes were red-rimmed and had his hands clasped in front of him.

Jorah’s in her brother’s grade. He and Viserys are friends. Well, no…not really friends at all. 

Daenerys is still little but she notices things, like how Jorah tends to shake his head ruefully while Viserys is making one of his long and loud speeches in the cafeteria, soap-boxing in front of Khal and the rest of his usual posse, about how the Targaryens are the best family in all of Westeros and that their father was the best thing to ever happen to this town and blah, blah, blah. 

Daenerys has heard the same speech about a thousand times. She could quote it by heart.

As Jorah peers into her tower, his blue eyes are shaded with sympathy.

“Are you okay?” Jorah asks her, in a friendly tone. He’s careful not to cross the threshold leading to her secret place. But he slowly sits down on the boards just outside of it, cross-legged, waiting for her answer. He holds his place in the book with his thumb.

She nods quickly, rubbing her eyes again, embarrassed that he’s caught her crying. But it’s too late to pretend now, and she’d rather it be him to discover her, instead of one of the others. She knows Jorah won’t tell her brother. 

She’s not sure how she knows this. But she does.

She swallows hard. She doesn’t trust her voice not to quaver and shake so she doesn’t try to say anything. Not for a little while. They just sit there. The girl in her tower. The boy standing guard at her door. 

It’s a blessing that he’s sitting there. 

Because after a few minutes, Tyrion comes by with Bronn. They both hear the boys coming, and Tyrion’s chattering voice, in particular, as he’s complaining about a stolen juice box. Tyrion is covetous about his juice boxes, all specially ordered by his father from some fancy grocery store out of town. 

They’re crossing the bridge and come a little too near for comfort. Daenerys gives Jorah a pleading look, helpless, not wanting the others to see her like this. Without a second thought, Jorah quickly shifts where he’s sitting, casually blocking the entrance to Daenerys’s secret hideaway by sitting up against it. He opens his book in his lap and pretends to be reading by himself, while Daenerys stays quiet, huddled in the space just behind him, hiding, listening.

Tyrion spots Jorah first and starts to chat immediately, forgetting all about his juice box. Peering around Jorah carefully, she sees two sets of sneakers on the bridge. Bronn’s are plain. Tyrion’s have little lion decals on the heel and gold-colored laces. They look expensive.

“We’re meeting up with Shagga in the woods behind the school, Mormont,” Bronn mentions, good-naturedly, tilting his head to the evergreen grove just beyond the bounds of the playground. “Wanna come?”

“No, I’m good,” Jorah replies shortly, keeping his eyes on the book, seemingly engrossed in the story.

“You’re so spontaneous, Jorah,” Tyrion rolls his eyes, sarcasm rolling off his tongue. His vocabulary is incredibly advanced for an eight-year-old. He regularly receives top marks in most of his classes. But unlike Cersei, his sister, they’re deserved. Tyrion is clever. And witty, “I wouldn’t be able to _bear_ being you.”

“Mmhmm,” Jorah mutters, not bothering to give Tyrion a reply. He’s seemingly unaffected by the Lannister boy’s dry comments, and just keeps reading until they move along. Daenerys wonders how he can shrug off their teasing so easily. She wishes she could be like that with Sansa.

When Tyrion and Bronn are out of earshot, Daenerys’s head emerges from her hideout, popping out somewhere near his bent knee. She lies on her stomach, propping herself up and holding her chin in both hands. She manages a shy, little, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Jorah answers, scooching over to give her a little more room. He knows what the girls say to her and how the elder Stark girl has started to single her out this year. He assures her, “Sansa thinks she has to make fun of other people to make sure they know she’s the new queen of the school, especially with Cersei leaving this year. She’ll grow out of it.”

“But what if she doesn’t?” Daenerys asks, miserably.

“Someday the others will realize that what she’s saying isn’t true,” he promises, in a steady voice that makes her believe him. “And then they won’t listen to her anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

Jorah smiles at her, “Yeah, I’m sure. And your hair is beautiful, Daenerys, so she’s just jealous anyway. Don’t let her make you feel bad.”

Daenerys is too little to blush, but his compliment warms her heart just the same. As does the fact that he’s stayed where he is, waiting for her tears to dry, waiting for her to feel safe to come back out. And the way he carefully pushes a wandering strand of her silver-blonde hair back behind her ears, eliciting one more grateful, “Thanks,” from her lips.

They sit together for a little while longer. When she’s ready to go back to the others, she crawls the rest of the way out. Jorah rises from the beams, and he offers his hand down to help her scramble to her feet once more. She gathers her long hair to one side, thinking she really should have someone teach her how to braid it.

A head taller than her, Jorah towers over her while she fusses with her untamed hair, giving her that same friendly, encouraging grin that reaches all the way up to his eyes. She likes his eyes. 

Next time her teacher asks her what her favorite color is, she’ll say “blue” and think on the exact shade that paints the iris of Jorah’s eyes. 

_My friend, Jorah…_

Daenerys has a friend, for the first time in her entire life. Her heart flips on the notion, new and exciting and warm. She stands up a little straighter, all the unpleasantness that drove her to the castle soon forgotten. Even standing as straight as she can, the top of her head barely reaches his shoulder. 

“Here, do you want to read this? I’ve finished it,” Jorah offers her his book, as they walk down the castle’s drawbridge, side by side. “It might be a little harder reading than in class but if you need help with any words, let me know…”

She takes the slim volume from Jorah’s hand, her little fingers brushing by his in the exchange. The centaur on the book’s cover has wings and looks fierce, like a dragon. Daenerys looks up from the book and meets her friend’s gaze once more. 

She grins back.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'm obsessed with baby Jorleesi <3 Second, salzrand has joined me in this obsession 😂 See the illustration at the beginning of this chapter for details *heart eyes for babiessssss*
> 
> Second, the Jorah/Jaime broship must be continued in all possible AUs, including grade school. Thanks again to rileypotter for making that connection in the first place (because it's in my head forever now lol) :)
> 
> Third, I HEART THE MORMONT GIRLS SO MUCH YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW <3
> 
> Not sure when I'll have another update for this one, but when I do - expect more Mormonts. And maybe more of Maege's cookies.

Most days, Daenerys walks home from school with her brother, trailing behind him, often rushing to keep up with his longer, slightly erratic stride. Some days she wonders if he even knows she’s following, since he never looks back. Too impatient, too distracted by whatever minor irritation currently curls that scowl across his face. When he does notice her, however rarely, it’s merely to snap, “Keep up, Dany!”

But today, Viserys has abandoned her completely for some after-school meet up with Khal and his brother, Qotho. He doesn’t tell her where he’s going or how long he’ll be. He’s always been secretive and it’s only getting worse as he gets older.

“Go home, Dany,” he tells her, as an afterthought. As usual, he doesn’t look back. He’s following Khal and Qotho into the gym and has no time to spare. At least not on his little sister. 

Daenerys jumps a little as a flash of lightning reflects off the upper hall windows. After a few seconds, thunder rumbles in response. The light mist and sprinkles of the morning have started to fall harder and steadier, washing down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the front lobby and bathing the parking lot, as heavy rain showers and thunderstorms are forecasted for much of the afternoon. 

When she looks back, Viserys is gone. She doesn’t have a chance to ask how she’s supposed to get home.

_No, not home. The Mopatis house is not my home._

Daenerys picks up her Ariel-themed backpack from the tiled floor and decides to head outside with the others, although the thunder scares her a little and she doesn’t want to walk home in the rain. 

Especially since she doesn’t really know the way.

Most of the kids who live in town are lingering under the awning of the front entrance, in rain coats, rubber boots and umbrellas, waiting to be picked up. Cersei is spinning her gold-trimmed umbrella between delicate fingers, standing beside her twin brother, Jaime. 

Jaime is talking to Jorah but Cersei isn’t listening to their conversation. Her gaze wanders the crowd of kids, like a lioness on the hunt, her eyes finally settling on Brienne, who stands only a few feet away. Cersei’s expression goes sour and Brienne shifts her posture awkwardly under the other girl’s frank, piercing gaze.

Daenerys is tempted to go to Jorah immediately, as it’s becoming habit for her to seek him out. But she’s a little worried Cersei’s gaze might turn her way instead of Brienne’s. So far, she’s been able to stay under the radar when it comes to Cersei Lannister—she’s not sure the older girl even knows she exists. And she’d like to keep it that way. Sansa can be cruel but Cersei is something else entirely.

Brienne should be more careful. She’s been spending time with Jaime a _lot_ , on the playground, in the cafeteria. But everyone knows Cersei is jealous about her twin’s attention. They’re almost always together. Nearly inseparable. Anyone who tries to come between them is in danger of feeling Cersei’s full wrath.

Well, any _girl_ anyway. Jorah and Jaime have been friends since first grade and Cersei’s never seemed to mind when they hang out.

Daenerys thinks Jorah’s brave for having anything to do with that family. 

_He is brave._ She thinks to herself, with a familiar warmth filling her chest. _And kind and sweet…_

Daenerys resists the urge to go to him and takes a seat on the benches next to Gilly instead, resting her backpack on the seat beside her. Gilly gives her a small smile, while they wait for the parents to drive around the circular drive and start picking up kids. Daenerys swings her legs slowly, fingers absently tracing the raised embossing on Ariel’s mermaid fins and her red hair, while watching everyone mull around. 

Luckily, Sansa is too busy with Arya today to bother Daenerys. Arya has taken to copying everything Sansa says and it’s driving Sansa batty.

“Stop copying me!” Sansa is adamant.

“Stop copying me,” Arya mocks her sister, smirking back.

Sandor and Gregor are wrestling out on the school lawn, despite the rain. This isn’t surprising. The Clegane boys spend most of their days covered head to toe, in mud and grime. Beric is playing with a lighter that he found in the boy’s locker room, striking the flint over and over again. He’s been a bit of a pyro since preschool. Mel tells him to “knock it off” in that weird way of hers that always seems to work with the boys, almost like magic. Margaery has a flock of girls around her, showing off a new bracelet that her grandmother bought her, adorned with rose charms. 

But then everyone’s parents are pulling up curbside to pick them up. And one by one, they all go home. 

Daenerys is quickly becoming the last kid on the bench. Gilly says goodbye soon enough, scooching off her seat and leaving Daenerys alone. She’s trying to be brave but she’s not sure what she should do. Since she’s been sitting here, the rain has started falling harder. Daenerys pulls up the hood of her blue raincoat, but it’s cold and wet and she’s starting to shiver. She wraps both her arms around her waist and waits, hoping for a miracle.

Jorah catches her eye and she grins, giving him a little wave. He waves back, eyes crinkling on his own grin. But his Aunt Maege is already here to pick him up, so he can’t come sit with her on the benches, even if he wanted to. She should have told him she needed a ride earlier, but it’s too late now. 

She almost calls after him but she thinks twice, worried about bothering him.

They hang out a lot now. Not in class, of course, since he’s two grades ahead of her. But the playground and the cafeteria have become much more bearable lately, mostly because of Jorah. Sansa’s even stopped picking on her as much, since the last time the Stark girl started the “old woman” chant, Jorah told her that the joke was tired and to give it a rest.

“Oh, really?” Sansa declared, giving a half-laugh of _posh_ disbelief, something she learned from Cersei. “Is _Ser_ Jorah Mormont your bodyguard now, Daenerys?” 

It feels that way sometimes, and Daenerys’s heart warms on the idea, despite Sansa’s derision. But a part of her worries that maybe he regrets becoming her friend at all? Maybe she’s more trouble than she’s worth, always entangling him in her own problems.

That’s why she doesn’t call out to him today, as much as she wants to. 

She watches him go, her heart falling to her stomach, wishing she could hop off the bench, run over and beg him to take her with him. He’s talking with his aunt through the passenger side window and then pointing Daenerys’s way. Daenerys grips the side of the bench a little tighter, wondering what’s happening.

And then Maege Mormont is suddenly walking her way. The woman wears a chunky cable knit sweater and jeans. She’s tall, her dark hair worn in a side braid, with a couple white streaks mixed in with the others. She’s still fairly young but she has five daughters, ages seventeen to two and a half. She loves her daughters, but she’s happy to blame them for her grey hairs too.

“Are you Daenerys?” Maege asks her when she comes close, her voice naturally brusque, but softened for Daenerys’s benefit. Daenerys nods her head. 

Another roll of thunder claps out at that exact moment and Daenerys jumps at the sound, startled. Maege crouches down so she’s eye level with the little girl, bringing a hand to rest on the side of Daenerys’s knee, “Honey, do you have someone coming to pick you up?”

“No,” Daenerys answers, shaking her head, grimly. She’s about to cry again, but promises herself she won’t, blinking back that stinging sensation at the corners of her eyes. 

“And you live with Illyrio Mopatis and his wife?” Maege wonders, a severe tone curling on some underlying judgment that misses Daenerys completely. 

Daenerys nods again.

“That’s what I thought,” Maege mutters, as if the idea displeases her. The woman briefly looks up at the somber, cinder-colored skies filling up the horizon. She pats the side of Daenerys’s knee lightly, before she stands up once more. 

She says, with a sympathetic look, “Do you want to come home with us? My older girls won’t be home for a while so you and Jorah can watch a movie or something?”

This time, Daenerys’s nod is fast and eager. A beaming smile steals over the little girl’s features. 

“Okay, good,” Maege is amused by the girl’s manner, picking up the Ariel backpack from the bench and tipping her head towards the car. 

* * *

The Mormont house is nestled up in a grove of evergreens, over on the north shore of the lake—a log cabin, rustic and sturdy, built with hardwoods and forest-green shutters, smaller than the sprawling Lannister ranch, of course, but honestly, what isn’t? The Mormonts have owned their little cabin for generations, together with some picturesque lake frontage that might make Tywin a little jealous, if he ever came up this way. 

If his gaze weren’t always fixed on the gaudy mayor’s mansion down by The Landing. 

The Mormont cabin is cozy but still _way_ too big for just Jorah and his dad to prowl around, like two grim bears…which is one of the main reasons why Maege moved in with her daughters only a few months after Jorah’s mother passed away. 

Jeor didn’t mind. He welcomed the noise that came with Maege and her semi-wild tribe of girls. The house was too quiet with Julia gone and Jeor was finding it difficult to manage with Jorah. Not that Jorah required much—he was a steady boy, born with his father’s gruff personality. But Jeor could barely get himself dressed in the morning some days, let alone remember to eat more than a meal a day or say two words to his son. 

Jeor’s grief was eating him whole, and Jorah was suffering because of it.

Things vastly improved once Maege moved in. She opened the curtains, bought some groceries and curtly told her brother to pull himself together, which he growled about but appreciated. The Mormont siblings were fiercely loyal and bluntly honest, to the benefit of both. Maege had recently left her second husband for being a lazy, selfish bastard, and needed a place to stay and lick her wounds. Her girls all adored Jorah and Jorah loved them like sisters, so it worked out for everyone.

Including Daenerys, who visits the cabin for the first time that day.

Daenerys _loves_ Jorah’s house. She loves the winding driveway, showered with pine and spruce needles. She loves the way the yard is landscaped with overgrown gardens, brambles and berry bushes, gently sloping down a hill. A grey stone path at the back of the cabin leads to a long, wooden dock and the lake, where fat raindrops are bouncing off deep waters. She loves the wraparound porch and the old bear rug on the floor in the front hall and the way the whole house smells like pine and wildflowers.

And chocolate-chip cookies.

Maege decides to bake a batch when they get home, after unstrapping Lyanna from her car seat and quickly ushering Jorah and Daenerys in and out of another downpour of rain. They all dash inside the mud room, where the pine and wildflower scents are complemented by a little leather, cedar and pipe tobacco. With one hand, Maege helps Daenerys off with a sleeve of her blue raincoat and tells Jorah to take his friend into the den to dry off.

“And get down, Tormund!” Maege scolds the big, furry, red-and-white-haired dog who comes rushing in the mud room to greet them. Daenerys doesn’t have time to be afraid of the fluffy St. Bernard, because he’s already slobbering all over her face. Maege gently pushes the animal back with one foot, while holding Lyanna aloft, balanced on her hip, “Leave the girl alone.”

Daenerys giggles at the dog’s many, sloppy kisses, bringing her hands up to pet his long, furry face. 

“He probably thinks she’s that girl that Jaime brought over,” Maege says. “What was her name, Jorah?”

“Brienne.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Gods, he loved that girl. Barely let her leave the house…”

After shaking their wet coats and muddy boots off, the kids soon run to the den with the dog plodding behind. 

And not long after that, the over timer rings and Maege brings in a plate of freshly-baked cookies. She brings them some milk too, with her only condition being that they promise to play quietly. She sets the plate of cookies on the coffee table, before straightening up, arms crossed over her chest.

“I just got Lyanna down for her nap,” she explains, nearly begging. “So _please_ , for the love of all that’s holy, no loud noises, okay?”

They promise. Daenerys grins through her promise, with a huge cookie already crammed halfway in her mouth. As Maege walks back to the kitchen, Jorah hits the resume button on the TV, and they both snuggle further under a shared, fuzzy blanket, lying on a bunch of soft throw pillows scattered on the den floor, watching _Wizard of Oz_. 

The tornado just set Dorothy’s house down with a _thump_. She’s holding Toto nervously, about to open the door to Oz. 

And vibrant technicolor.

“This is my favorite part,” Daenerys says, as she breaks the rest of her warm cookie into two pieces, liking the way the molten chocolate slowly pulls away from itself.

“It’s everybody’s favorite part,” Jorah laughs, but in a way that says he likes it too. Tormund snores in agreement from where he’s stretched out on his side, on the hardwood floors near the couch. 

_A Wrinkle in Time_ lies on the rug in front of them, propped open, spine bent, to be picked up again after the movie is over. Daenerys is halfway through the book. She isn’t struggling with the words as much as she thought she would, but she likes to hear Jorah read—she loves his voice almost as much as she loves the color of his eyes—so she’s willing to pretend a little. 

Over the next seventy years, Jorah won’t be able to count the number of times he’s heard her ask, “Read to me?” 

Like she does now, “Please, Jorah?” 

Dorothy’s found her way home again and the cookie plate is almost empty. Daenerys flops onto her back, silver-blonde hair spread out over the throw pillows and the oval rug, playing with an old stuffed bear that she found lying around and listening to Jorah’s voice as he reads aloud. The rain on the tin roof above them is bouncing softly now and the thunder growls low in the distance. 

She’s glad it rained today. She likes the Mormont house. She likes the fuzzy blanket and Maege’s cookies and the plush teddy bear in her hands. She especially likes the way Jorah’s voice sounds as he narrates Calvin: 

_Oh, Meg, you are a moron. Don’t you know you’re the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a long time?_

Daenerys grins softly, hugging that stuffed bear close. She almost closes her eyes, but doesn’t want to risk falling asleep. If she falls asleep, the afternoon will be over sooner, and she’d rather it just continue on like this for a while longer. This is the warmest and happiest she’s felt in a long time. 

But nothing lasts forever. 

Soon, the back door is opening and closing loudly, followed by the chatter of teenage girls. And then the dog is awake, scrabbling to his feet, nails scratching the wood, and barking loudly, as the girls enter through the main hall.

“Oh, hush, Tormund! It’s just us, you silly mutt,” Jorah’s oldest cousin, Dacey, hollers from the back of the house. But it’s too late. The dog’s bark is followed by a baby’s piercing cry. 

Lyanna’s awake and Maege is calling out from the kitchen, “Seriously, Dacey? I had her asleep for almost two hours straight. This was going to be a new record.”

“Oops?” Dacey offers, shrugging. Lyra follows close behind, hanging her rain coat up and shaking out her dark hair, which is drenched. She forgot her umbrella in her locker, “Mom, Aly said she’ll be over _after_ band practice but maybe not in time for dinner.”

“Because of Mathias?”

“ _1000%_ because of Mathias,” Lyra doesn’t mince words, knowing that their mother wouldn’t buy anything less than the truth anyway. 

“Mathias is how you end up with five daughters and two divorces before you’re forty,” Maege grumbles, but there’s little she can do about Alysane’s dalliances. Her girls take after her in too many ways. On her way up to tend the baby, she asks Dacey, “Did you drop off Jorelle at ice-skating?”

“And I picked up Uncle Jeor’s mail from the post office. Done and done,” Dacey confirms. “And to think, you were worried about me getting my driver’s license. Look at all this errand-running I’m doing for you…”

“Mmhmm,” Maege allows, without much enthusiasm. She’s doesn’t have time for enthusiasm, climbing the stairs quickly. Lyanna’s cries are echoing through the house. 

“Hey,” Dacey catches sight of Jorah and Daenerys as she nears the den, her features breaking into a friendly smile. 

The girl is seventeen, tall and lanky, wearing her dark brown hair up in a high ponytail. She hops over the younger kids’ makeshift blanket fort lithely and plops down onto the couch cushions, grabbing a magazine on her way by. Her gaze lingers on Daenerys for a minute, curiosity turning into a little tease. She asks Jorah, “Who’s this, cous? Your girlfriend?”

“Dace—” Jorah begs with his eyes, blushing just a little. 

“I’m Daenerys,” Daenerys isn’t bothered by the title at all, even if she doesn’t quite know what it means. Not yet. 

She crawls out of the fuzzy blanket a little, sitting up on her knees and pushing her hair behind her ears, fixated by the way Jorah’s cousin entered the room, so easy and natural. She’s confident and pretty, reaching up to loosen her ponytail just a hair while balancing the glossy magazine on her lap. 

“It’s nice to meet ya, Daenerys,” Dacey looks a lot like her mother. Smiles like her too. As if she’s known Daenerys forever, and they’re sharing a little joke. Daenerys likes the way the Mormonts smile. Warm and open, all the way up to their eyes.

“Oh, score!” Dacey eyes snap a little as she spots the dwindling plate of cookies on the coffee table. She snatches one for herself, calling out to her sister, “Lyra, get in here. Mom made cookies!”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Lyra is braiding her damp hair to one side as she comes in. Her fingers move nimbly over the dark strands, “I’ll need two after the day I’ve had. Trigonometry and I are _not_ friends. Coming through, sweetheart…”

Lyra gently slides around Daenerys, both hands tapping the little girl’s shoulders briefly to let her know she’s just behind her. She reaches over Daenerys’s head to claim the last cookie for herself.

“That’s why they make calculators, Lyra,” Dacey says, taking a bite. “Mmm. Oh, yeah, this is what true happiness is made of, I swear…”

“They’re the best cookies I’ve ever tasted,” Daenerys agrees, because it’s true. Usually, she would just stay quiet around strangers, but the girls move around her and talk to her like she’s been in their house a hundred times before. Like she belongs here. 

At _home_.

She glances at Jorah, who’s taking in the scene quietly. His cousins are a whirlwind but he’s used to it. His expression is calm and content, happy that Daenerys seems happy. And she is happy. The kind of happiness that fills Maege’s chocolate-chip cookies. 

Lyra breaks a soft chunk off the last one, offering Daenerys one more piece. It’s impossible to say no, even though she’s had um…a few. Daenerys takes it from Lyra’s outstretched hand with a little, “Thanks.”

“Well, she’s cute _and_ she likes Mom’s cookies, Jorah,” Dacey mentions to her cousin, flipping through her magazine casually. She looks up from the pages briefly to give Daenerys a congenial wink, “So I say we keep her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies, as always, to Mathias #SorryNeverSorry


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some random bb!Jorleesi fluff. Just. Because. <3

The first thing Jorah sees when he comes up from beneath the water line is Daenerys perched on the edge of the dock, in her purple swimsuit, with her ankles crossed and feet hanging towards the lake, her bare toes just grazing the deep water. Tormund’s furry head rests in her lap and she’s itching the dog’s velvety ears, much to his near-snoring delight.

If the sun comes out again, she’ll push the dog off and complain, “It’s too hot, Tormund!” But for now, all those fluffy white clouds in the sky are giving them some intermittent shade and there’s a nice, late summer breeze dancing over the lake. Besides, Daenerys is already cooled off, having been in the water until about ten minutes ago. Her bathing suit and hair are both still damp.

Jorah floats on his back like a bear cub born in water, sending up a high spray of water through his teeth and pursed lips like a perfectly arcing waterfall.

“How do you do that?” Daenerys asks, a little in awe. She’s spent all summer trying to mimic his skills in the water, with varying degrees of success. 

At least she’s learned how to keep her head above water without flailing.

“Just practice,” Jorah answers modestly, as he turns in the water smoothly, like a fish, shifting to a breast stroke that brings him closer to the dock, treading water right near Daenerys’s feet. He reaches up to tug on one of her toes gently, with a little tease, and she smirks before wriggling away and splashing him lightly for good measure.

He hides from her spray by taking a breath and slipping underwater once more, grinning as he submerges. 

They’ll repeat this exact scene about eight years later. But the tease will be a little more insistent on his side and her smirk will be a tad more sly. And she’ll end up back in the water, with him, swimming closer than those two speckled loons currently paddling around the outer island, calling out their eerie melodies across the lake.

_You better come home every weekend_ …, she’ll say between soft, damp kisses, her arms sliding around his neck and resting on his shoulders, becoming broader with each passing season, as the boy became a man. She’ll add, _University or not, your weekends are still mine._

_You’ll hear no argument from me, Your Grace_ , he’ll say to her, using a nickname that’s become commonplace over the years. The knight and princess jokes never stop, but Jorah and Daenerys eventually adopt them for their own, as there’s more truth in the old schoolyard jabs than anything else. 

Always the stronger swimmer, he’ll keep them afloat easily, with a few, languid strokes, even as their kisses turn more heated and their feet tangle beneath the water line.

_Do you promise, Jorah?_

_Always, Daenerys…_

Daenerys probably wants to draw a similar promise from him now, but she’s not bold enough yet. That won’t be the case forever. She’s no longer the sad and lonely little girl who ran across the playground to hide from her tormentors and cry silent tears in an empty play castle. She’s learning that she can be brave, even though she’s small, and that her voice is worth as much as those around her.

Jorah notices her blossoming self-confidence and is glad for it. She’ll need her voice this year, as his will be absent. 

In two weeks, Jorah starts his first year at Garden High, the combined middle and high school, halfway across town. They have lockers with numbered combinations and study halls and class schedules and algebra. It’s all very grown up and new, but Jorah’s already used to it, having heard Dacey, Aly and Lyra’s daily complaints for the last however many years.

Jorah’s not afraid to switch schools. He’s not worried about new teachers and more challenging subjects. He’s naturally clever and a quick study on most things. He’ll do fine. But he’s not exactly excited about leaving elementary school either. 

Mostly because of who he has to leave behind. 

Jorah knows it’s been on Daenerys’s mind lately too, especially as the weather gets a little cooler and the days grow a little shorter. They creep ever closer towards the end of summer, and he hears her true feelings clearly, not-so-subtly hiding behind her next words. 

“I wish it was the beginning of summer instead of the end,” she sighs, hugging Tormund closer and bending to press an affectionate kiss on his furry head. Tormund nearly smiles in half-dozing dog-sleep. He loves any attention, leaning into the soothing calm of the little girl’s continued petting.

It's common knowledge that the dog still prefers Brienne (he goes _crazy_ whenever she comes over), but he sees Daenerys more often, so he’ll take her as a close second-best.

Swimming nearer, Jorah reaches up to grip the edge of the dock and nimbly pulls himself halfway out of the water, holding himself up by resting his elbows on the planks just beside Daenerys, his chin coming to rest on his crossed arms. 

“It won’t be so bad,” he promises, cutting through to the true reason she doesn’t want summer to end. 

At the end of last term, Sansa and Margaery were no less cliquey than the beginning of the year. But they’d moved on to other targets by the time summer vacation started, having decided that Daenerys was no true rival. At least not enough that they were willing to take her on while Jorah was hovering close by.

Besides, the impending absence of Cersei was leaving behind a power vacuum, and the two girls were noticing some cracks and fissures in their _own_ relationship, as they would no longer have a common frenemy to deal with.

“Margaery, the color of your dress is just to _die_ for,” Sansa would say, somewhat theatrically. Before graduation, she would take the lead role in at least two of their high school productions. Her voice turned sickly sweet, “This is why you’re the prettiest girl at school.”

“Sansa, stop. It’s so _obviously_ you,” Margaery would answer, with a tight, chilly smile that she’d learned from her grandmother—the elegant, cunning and impervious Olenna Tyrell, Principal of Garden High. In adult circles, she’s known as the Queen of Thorns. The smart kids at Garden High call her “ma’am” and just try to stay out of her way. 

Jorah’s not really fluent in passive-aggressive girl speak so he only understood half of what was going on with Sansa and Margaery at the end of last term and, to be honest, he didn’t much care, just as long as the end result was that they left Daenerys alone. Which they did, finally.

And she wouldn’t be _all_ alone. 

The month before summer vacation, she’d made another friend, all by herself, when they had a late transfer student join the student body—Missandei Naath, curly-haired, kind and fond of butterflies. She had a kaleidoscope of gold and silver butterfly patches embossed on the pockets of her blue jean jacket and a few more on her lunchbox. Missandei was shy too, but she was assigned the seat next to Daenerys and the girls had bonded quickly.

Missandei’s dad is deployed overseas and her mom is dead. She was born in Essos and lived there most of her life, but was sent across the Narrow Sea when distant family members decided to shuffle up her living arrangements again. She’s been passed around for most of her life, house to house, chore list to chore list. All that moving around has made her multi-lingual and very easy-going, having to adapt to new places and new friends almost constantly.

She says it isn’t so bad, except the families pressure her to give their children Essosi language lessons constantly, in Dothraki, Braavosi and…French.

Everyone always wants their children to learn French.

But at least she’s an only child, and doesn’t have an awful brother to deal with. Missandei’s met Viserys a few times now. She doesn’t like him any better than Jorah does. She _does_ like Jorah though, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit. And Jorah likes her. Though maybe not _quite_ the same as he likes Daenerys.

Jorah reminds Daenerys that she’ll get to hang out with Missandei again soon.

“Yeah, I like her a lot,” Daenerys nods enthusiastically on the idea, her hand following Tormund’s red-and-brown shaggy fur down his neck to his belly. Her eyes light up on Missandei’s name. But they dim again, quickly, as she mutters, “It won’t be the same though. Without you…”

“Two more years and you’ll be coming over too. It’s not forever,” he tells her, giving a little shrug without raising his head from his hands, trying to cheer her up. He teases, “And besides, you’re eight now. You don’t need me anymore.”

That’s partly true. 

She’s officially eight years old, as of last Tuesday. Aunt Maege made an entire batch of red-velvet cupcakes with lemon frosting for the occasion. Jorah and the girls sang a chorus of “happy birthday” and even Jorah’s dad came out of his upstairs office for a minute, to see what the fuss was all about. He didn’t say much of anything to anyone but he gave Daenerys a small smile, peeking out from behind his greying whiskers, and a gruff but friendly, “Happy birthday, Daenerys.” 

And he took one of the cupcakes back to his office, which seemed to please Aunt Maege, patting Jorah’s shoulder once on his way by. 

“That’s not true,” Daenerys answers Jorah’s last claim _very_ seriously for an eight-year-old. But only because she means it. 

_I need you by my side. _

She’ll never, ever let him argue with this. She’ll braid the words into her wedding vows.

Jorah doesn’t answer her, because he knows she’ll be stubborn about it. Anyway, she’ll be all right, even if she doesn’t know it yet. She’s stronger than she knows, but gentle and sweet too. And they’ll still see each other often. She spends nearly every weekend at the Mormonts now, and it’s becoming unbreakable habit. Her guardians and her brother don’t seem to mind her absence in the least.

_Do they even notice?_ Jorah wonders sometimes. Aunt Maege wonders this too, but with a little more concern than her young nephew. She’s been tempted to have a sternly-worded conversation with Illyrio Mopatis and his wife more than once. She’s still considering it, but comes from a long line of staying out of other people’s business. 

The loons make another set of haunting calls before diving underwater, together. The sound of tires on gravel echoes down from the long driveway leading to the cabin, harmonizing with delicate wind chimes on the porch, stirred by summer breezes. 

It’s Dacey and Aly back from town.

Tormund wakes up at the new sound and leaves Daenerys in a rush, scrambling up the length of the dock and barking loudly at the new arrival, as if he’s never seen Maege’s car before in his life. 

“Oh my _god_ , Tormund! It’s just us. Not the UPS guy, okay? Learn how to distinguish cars, would you?” Dacey’s hollering at him as she parks, head peeking out from the open window. 

Aly exits the passenger side as soon as the car rolls to a stop, bringing out two squat, square boxes with her, one piled on top of the other, large enough that she’s using both hands to carry them. She shuts the car door with her foot, while Dacey gets out on the other side, crouching down to the tail-wagging dog, fussing with his long face, convincing Tormund that she’s the same Dacey he’s been barking at since he was a puppy. 

As they head into the house, the girls catch sight of the kids down at the dock and yell down, “Jorah! Daenerys! C’mon, we’ve got pizza!”


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And continuing with the #AuntMaegeMVP theme of this weekend <3

The stairs in the cabin have a habit of creaking underfoot and all the doors upstairs whine a little on their hinges. But Jeor still doesn’t hear Maege enter his office. 

He perfected the art of living in his own head a while ago, so this isn’t all that surprising. Since his sister and her girls moved in, he’s been better about noticing things. He’s learned how to mark the hours between sunrise and sunset again, and with more than just a blur of agonizing minutes ticked out by a hallway clock. Still, he has a tendency to get lost in his work and he was always a bit of a bear, even before Julia… 

And Maege is a stealthy one, always has been. When they were kids, she used to sneak up on him out in his (or what he thought were his) most secret hiding places in the woods. 

He’d be leaning up against the trunk of an old beech tree with a book balanced on his knees, and Maege would creep up behind him like a forest dryad, reaching out to snatch the book from his hands with a sly, “Gotcha. And Mama’s looking for you, Jeor.” 

Then she’d toss him back his book, put her hands in her pockets and go off on her own adventures in the woods, rarely coming back home until bedtime, with leaves in her hair and wildflowers braided into her shoelaces. 

Her girls are loud enough that Jeor knows where most of them are at any time of day, but Maege retains her mysterious ways. While he’s working, a steaming coffee mug will sometimes appear at his left hand and he’ll have little knowledge of where it’s come from. 

But today, Maege has more than coffee in her hands. And more than usual on her mind. She drops the day’s newspaper right beneath his nose, with the page creased and folded over to a story that has a bold, damning headline:

**Illyrio Mopatis Arrested on Drug Trafficking Charges**   
_Huge Bust for the County as Multi-State Drug Ring is Rounded Up…_

He’s not surprised by the story, nor the charges against Mopatis—which according to the article, appear to be supported and substantiated by at least 170 kilograms of evidence found in the garage and stashed under a few loose floorboards in the house. 

This isn’t coming out of left field. Maege has expressed her own concerns a number of times over the last few months, and Jeor found them all compelling. His sister’s judgment is spot on most of the time. 

And Jeor’s never cared much for Illyrio Mopatis or his shrewish wife anyway. They were both too close to Aerys Targaryen not to have some of his dirt on their hands. Or ash, as it were. The ex-mayor burned his way through a number of felonies before leaving town. Embezzlement, bribery, drugs, suspected murder (Rickard and Brandon Stark’s bodies have never been found)—one crime inevitably leads to another. 

Maege has been grumbling about Mopatis for some time, telling Jeor that Daenerys needs other living arrangements. But there was no proof and little they could do. By law, Mopatis has been the Targaryen children’s legal guardian since their father’s vanishing act. 

Besides, Jeor comes from a long, _long_ line of minding one’s own business. Maege knows this. She was raised the same. Even with that headline confirming his sister’s worst suspicions in black and white, he’s hesitant to get involved.

If Julia was alive, this wouldn’t be the case. She made him brave and strong in a way that he can scarcely believe sometimes. But some of Jeor’s empathy died when his wife died, too suddenly and far too young. Lately, he’s been too willing to accept life’s more tragic facets as unavoidable and not worth fighting against.

For what difference does it make? Life isn’t fair. Despair is inevitable.

Jeor looks up from the newspaper on his desk to his sister, who is glaring down at him with expectation. But what she’s expecting him to do about this, he can’t be sure. He meets her gaze rather blankly, with a little shrug threatening to lift his broad shoulders. 

Her stern expression warns him against it, fiercely. 

“So?” he wonders, unsure what she wants from him.

“ _So_ …,” she says, picking up a conversation that’s been simmering between them for some time. 

She’d suggested it once a few months ago but he flat out refused. This time, it’s no suggestion. She commands him plainly, as if he were one of her daughters, “You’re going to call Aemon Targaryen this morning and you’re going to get Daenerys’s situation straightened out _today_ , before she ends up back in foster care.”

“Maege…,” he sighs. It’s a sad thing to think about, but they really shouldn’t be—

“I mean it this time,” she dares him to try her patience. With those snappy brown eyes, she just _dares_ him.

He recognizes her steely, unyielding tone. This is the same voice she used on him when he was talking nonsense in the weeks after Julia’s funeral. 

One bleak night in particular comes to mind, when he might have done something he couldn’t take back. He spouted dark and bitter musings into the wee hours of the morning, spiraling on nihilism and the idea that life was no longer worth living. His sister finally had enough, forbidding any more with a sharpness in her tone that left no room for doubt.

_Stop this. Pull yourself together. Julia would forbid these thoughts and so will I. You have more than enough to live for, Jeor. You’re being selfish and blind if you think otherwise. And don’t you dare think to deprive that little boy sleeping upstairs of his father too. Don’t you dare._

Jeor’s glad she was there that night. He’s glad she said what she said, even if it hurt to hear it. But this is different. She’s asking him to meddle in the affairs of other families and that’s something neither one of them is usually willing to do.

“Aemon’s lived alone for a very long time,” Jeor argues, bringing up the same objections that stopped him from calling his former business partner last time. “He’s retired. He’s old and set in his ways and not one for children. He’s not going to be willing to take on two dependents…”

“It’ll likely just be the one,” Maege clarifies, and Jeor narrows his eyes at her words, curiously. 

She explains, “The boy, Viserys, has apparently been implicated in some of the local distribution. They’re not sure yet if Illyrio was using him to sell drugs at the school or if he was stealing them and acting on his own. He won’t go to prison or anything like that—he’s too young. But it sounds like he’ll be in need of more formal supervision and a change of school district, in any case.”

“And Daenerys will be left on her own?” Jeor’s heart, shredded though it is, moves on that thought. 

The bright and energetic girl who flies through this house at all hours of the day is all wide smiles and sparkling laughter most of the time. But he remembers when she was still rather withdrawn. She’d been so nervous the first few times she came to the house, worried she’d do something or say something wrong, clinging to Jorah’s side like a lost puppy. 

She’s a sweet girl, there’s no denying that. She certainly deserves better. She’s such a little thing and none of this is her fault. That’s for sure.

“Yes,” Maege nods, reaching forward to snatch his desk phone off its cradle. She pushes it into his hand, insisting, “Which is why you need to call Maester Aemon. Now.”

“It’s still not any of our business, Maege,” he says. But he accepts the phone. 

“Tell that to your son, Jeor,” Maege answers flatly. “He and Daenerys are nearly inseparable and I don’t see that changing any time soon. So if you’d like to explain to your boy why you didn’t do _everything_ in your power to make sure his best friend isn’t thrown into the system and sent halfway across the state, please, be my guest.”

Jeor grumbles a little more at his sister, nearly growling, but he’s already dialing the number. 

It may be none of their business but Maege is right. Jorah would never forgive him. And Jeor has no wish to see Daenerys Targaryen sent away to live with strangers either. He’s grown used to the girl’s presence around the house. 

Last week, he’d been in the kitchen making a sandwich when she came in from down by the lake. She just needed some water but forgot to take off her muddy boots when she came inside. Autumn this year has been a wet one and there’s no avoiding the mud down by the water’s edge.

Jeor heard the squish-squish of galoshes as he buttered a piece of rye bread. When he looked towards the sound, he found Daenerys smiling up at him in a friendly manner, while she pushed back the hood of her blue raincoat. He responded to her smile in kind. But then he gave a cursory glance at the little footprints trailing behind her, running from the porch door all the way down the hall to the kitchen. His lingering glance drew her attention back towards them as well.

“Oh no!” She realized too late and blanched at the mistake, color draining from her features, that little grin replaced by dismay and the sudden threat of tears, as she wasn’t sure what to do or how dire a mistake this might be. Maege had gone to the grocery store but she’d be back any minute.

At the little girl’s distress, Jeor’s smile only broadened, for her sake. He got her the glass of water and told her not to worry about it—he’d take care of it. Then he hooked his hands under her arms and carried her back out to the front porch, depositing Daenerys and her muddy boots back on solid oak planks. He bent down and pulled her hood up again, as the chilly air was misty under cloudy skies. 

Before he straightened back up, she threw her little arms around his thick neck. She hugged him tightly and pressed a kiss against his whiskered cheek and said, “Thank you, Mr. Mormont!” before running off to find Jorah again. 

Jeor could see why his son took to her so easily. She was charming, even at eight years old. And no, he’d not be happy to see her sent away. 

He’s dialed the number. The other end of the line starts ringing.

Before she leaves his office, Maege pats his shoulder and gives him a little smirk, happy to win this round. But that’s not surprising either. She wins _every_ round. His sister’s a battle-axe. 

But that’s because she’s usually right too.

“Hello?” Aemon Targaryen’s amiable, quaver-friendly voice picks up on the third ring.

“Aemon, it’s Jeor Mormont. How the hell are you?”


End file.
